


Wreck of the Day

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Political Animals
Genre: Gen, I've had a couple of sad days, Mentions of drugs, T.J Hammond need all the hugs in the world, no actual use though, so sad writing happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6977836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two days. He is two days away from a new personal record when reality catches up to him and sends him over the edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wreck of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the absolutely amazing song "Wreck of the Day" by Anna Nalick. Political Animals was a brilliant show, and it pains me that we never got more than six episodes. Which, I suppose, is why this happened.

Two days. He is two days away from a new personal record when reality catches up to him and sends him over the edge. As he speeds down the road, T.J can't help but wonder what ill he ever did to deserve this kind of shit in his life, the kind that just keeps hitting him when he least of all needs it. Coming out while his dad was in office. The constant screw-ups; the boarding schools, the colleges, one failure after the other. The drugs that were supposed to manage the pain, but ended up managing him.

 _”I've been doing so good...”_ he scolds himself, tears blurring his vision.

He has. He's made it through the first phase of his mother's second campaign for president. All the media scrutiny, the neverending inquiries into his two hospital visits, the meaningful glances as he downs another soda, he's taken it and swallowed the bitter pill that it is.

He's made it through his father's continued missteps, having sworn to become a better man, a faithful man, for his ex-wife's sake. His father swore the first was just an unfortunate case of wrong time, wrong place, worst camera angle. All familiar excuses, the kind T.J and his brother have lived with most of their lives. The second time, Bud doesn't even try to gloss over it. T.J finds some satisfaction in getting to be the one to pull the ”disappointed sigh”-act. 

He makes it through Nana's stumbling run at sympathetic sobriety. She thinks he doesn't notice, but he knows she's faltering. He didn't miss the small flask she dipped into at Doug's and Anne's wedding, and the scent of vodka and lemon on her breath is as much a part of his childhood as his father's cigar smoke that it becomes even more prominent when Margaret slips up after a few weeks of absolute abstinence.

He's worked his ass off, and it's like the rug is pulled out from under him.

Two months ago, four months into sobriety, his family allowed him to leave the house outside of campaign events. Under supervision, but still. Four months cooped up in the house or stuck in a car or a plane going to god knows how many cities and parties and the unrelenting tension as his mother fights her way toward the top, the simple pleasure of going outside is a godsend. They haven't discussed the possibility of a new sober companion, and T.J hasn't brought it up. He still feels sick to his stomach about the way he talked Gunner into breaking his own sobriety. T.J wrote him an apology letter, still too ashamed of facing his former sponsor eye to eye.

Two days. Forty-eight fucking hours. He had to take a walk today of all god damned days.

For all the bullshit spouting out of this city, T.J actually likes D.C. Logan Circle, the JFK Center, the Lincoln Memorial. He still gets recognized at times, but for the most part, he can walk through the city without being bothered, especially when he can get his tail to either fall back or go civilian. If nothing else, this city lives. It pulsates and shifts beneath his feet, expands and contracts, always in flux. He shouldn't really have been surprised, but it still manages to suckerpunch him out of the dream he has been living for the past five months, three weeks, five days and three hours.

He walks past a newsstand, his eyes glancing quickly over the selection. He sticks to the New York Times and the Washington Post, having learned far too early that newsstands like this one can paint a far too lewd and horrifying picture. T.J resents the fact that his eyes still manages to catch it in passing, causing him to skid to a stop. The agent keeping tabs on him comes to a halt next to him, giving him a look oh, so familiar. _Are you OK?_ His pulse is racing, his mind running wild, bile rising in his throat. He gives a curt nod, and the agent gives him a few paces of breathing room, convinced by his answer.

No. T.J is not fucking okay.

Sean Reeves is smiling at him, all white, perfect teeth, from the cover of TIME Magazine, the headline screaming out _Out In the Open_. Dazed, T.J reaches out for a copy of the magazine, hoping that this is just a case of very bad wording. He flips to the page with Reeves's interview, and his heart breaks. Ohio republican congressman Sean Reeves. A bold, personal decision. T.J has to swallow hard to keep the vomit from escaping his throat as he reads through the interview, the grand quotes about not wanting to lie to himself or to his family, how he and his wife split amicably for their children's sake, about being an openly gay republican on Capitol Hill, the hint of a smile when asked what life holds for the congressman.

Sean's found someone.

The truth thunders in time with T.J's heartbeat. Sean found someone, someone who was worthy of his affection, worthy enough to make him come out voluntarily, to leave his wife, someone... not a _pathetic, American punchline_. The words come back to him far too quickly, echoing in Sean's voice, ripping the stitches T.J thought were all healed. Never good enough. Never the best son, the best boyfriend, the best alternative.

Hands trembling, he sets the magazine back in its stand. Instincts kick in. Flight. Escape. Numb. Carefully turning his head, he spots the agent about 20 feet away his back to him, scanning the crowd. It's a fucking miracle. Fueled by anger, disappointment and hurt, T.J takes off down the street. He's almost by the next intersection when he hears his tail calling his name, but he keeps moving, running out into traffic, bumping into pedestrians. He needs to get away, he can't be here.

His lungs burn, threatening to up and leave his body by the time he reaches the house. Slowing down, he walks calmly up the driveway, heading straight for the garage. The SUV his mother prefers is missing, but the decidedly flashier Mercedes is still parked in its spot. For a while, his family kept the keys hidden, but now they are back, hanging on the wall near the door that leads into the house. He's out of the garage, tires screeching, in no time at all, barreling down the streets of Washington. A subdued ping lets him know his phone has connected to the car's smart system, and in a fit of desperation, T.J dials a number that has been erased from his phone for the past six months, but burned into his memory forever.

Twenty minutes later, he's hightailing it out of the city, out of this clusterfuck of hurt, a small bag of white escape burning a hole in the inside pocket of his jacket, phone ringing off the hook. Mom. Dougie. Nana. Mom again. Even dad. T.J turns off his phone, feeling sick to his stomach, his body kicking wildly for the itch to be scratched. So fucking close. A second wave of rage and nausea hits as he takes the I-95. _They must have known_. Half of Washington knew he was coming out weeks before the news hit. An article in TIME, his family had to know. His mother, his brother, his father. Hell, Nana probably knew, and they all kept it from him. He punches the steering wheel, the thudding pain not bringing nearly enough relief for the hurt inside.

He's not even sure where he's heading, until he finds himself rolling down an all too familiar gravel road. The place looks so... void. The best days of his life were spent here. The summer of '97 and so many summers before that. Doug's wedding. The place has always exuded life, the kind of charm that so personifies his father and grandfather. Now it's empty and lifeless. Kinda like T.J is feeling at the moment.

There's a spare key hidden under one of the window ledges, but he can think clearly enough to reason that he couldn't do _this_ in his grandfather's house. But the house was never the destination. He sprints across the grounds, making a beeline for the old barn. It had stood empty for some time already in '97, and T.J and Doug spent enough time to find alternate ways to get in there. Sure enough, the crack in the wall is still there, and although he's grown a considerable amount since he was fifteen, he can still fit through it, although he tears his jeans and jacket on the way in. The ladder up to the loft looks as rickety as ever, but he scales it, no regards for safety. 

The loft is nearly stripped bare, only a pile of hay in one of the corners, the makeshift doors leaning up against the walls. Still smells the same, though. T.J staggers forward, collapsing into the pile as the sobs he's been holding back for the entire car ride finally force their way up his throat. He can never catch a break. Never be the one to pull through. Since he started using, he's never made it past the six month-mark. The club is already failing, the initial hype of the troubled former First Son waning quickly after opening night. 

_I fucked up my own venture by overdosing, how much of an idiot could I be?_ he scolds himself, throwing his head back into the hay.

God damn Sean-fucking-Reeves and his fucking TIME Magazine fucking story. Fucking asshole rat with the pictures of the two of them. This could have been his happy ending, a chance for a better life. It could have been the two of them, together, the two of them breaking Washington in fucking half. Republican congressman and the bad boy former First Son.

”Put that on your fucking magazine cover...” he mutters to the emptiness, crossing his arms over his chest, hugging tight.

His body aches and itches, his thoughts flitting to the cocaine in his pocket. Not as much as his binge at Dome, but enough to make the world hurt a little less. Knowing it's there, so close to him, sets his blood boiling, craving the release. T.J lets out a whine, hands fisting into his jacket until his knuckles turn white. He shouldn't. He shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't.

_But he might as well._

The red 90 days chip in his wallet means nothing. He fell back down the second he called Omar to score. His mom has been so proud, congratulating him each time he's come home with a new chip. Only last week, she reminded him that he only had a week left before he'd get the 6 month chip, as if he'd forget it. Typical T.J, fucks it up on home stretch.

His right hand searches the outline of the small pouch, circling it before diving inside the jacket to pull it out. It's as if there's an electric current running through him, egging him on. It's there. He's already broken his sobriety by scoring. This is what he does. He screws up and gets high. Solid M.O.

”Fuck...”

He clenches his hand into a fist around the coke, another sob racking his body. He was doing so good, so, so good. Had been, he corrected himself morosely. Unclenching, T.J swiftly took hold of the bag, tipping out a small mound on his left hand, bringing it up to his nose. Just a breath away.

_”It's all gonna be okay.”_

_”Grandpa Hammond's farm...”_  
_”Best summer ever.”_

_”Do you think it's easy taking a chance you'll never come back home again?”_

T.J blinks hard, letting out a shaky breath, sending the white powder on his hand flying. He wanted to escape so much, he'd left D.C to do it. He couldn't do it, not at home, not where his family tried to keep their faith in him, however flawed their ways. So where had he gone? The one place that still held fond memories, of lazy days spent being a regular boy, legs propped up against a pile of hay, playing with his brother, getting dirt under his nails and being called into dinner by grandma Hammond. Not the son of a President, not the talk of the tabloids, not confused and hurt.

He couldn't, wouldn't, fuck this up.

The bag gets tossed out the open hatch along with the 90 days-chip that T.J digs out from his wallet. At least he wouldn't be able to get more. The farm is already far away from any major city, and much as he knows drugs could be found almost anywhere, the farm was so far in the back of beyond that going anywhere for a hit would be a waste of time. He'll suffer through the itch, the sweats and the trembles as his body conformed to the continued sobriety despite the chemical signals in his head firing wildly at the temptation he'd presented himself.

Getting up, T.J walks to the other end of the barn, rummaging through the two chests there, pulling out a large, threadbare wool blanket, wrapping it around himself. He just needs to last through the cravings, just long enough to push past it so he can go back home and start over. Settling back into the hay, he toes off his shoes and tucks the corners of the blanket behind his back, swaddling himself into something that could be a cocoon just as soon as it could be a straightjacket. He scoffs at the unintentional pun _”Yeah, like that would work...”_

The exhilaration courses through his body, his fingers feeling electrified under the blanket, gripping into the sides of his jacket. Eventually, he drifts off, lulled to sleep by the rustling hay under his restless body. His dreams are shapeless, vast and infuriating, as if his head was trying to put together a scenario for him to work through, but couldn't fit the pieces together.

When T.J wakes up, it's dark outside. A chill in the air has taken a hold of his body, the blanket bunched up into a heap on his left side. His head aches from the long nap, and he has to close one of his eyes as he starts up his phone again, anticipating the onslaught of notifications.

_15 new messages._

_Voice mail full._

_40 missed calls._

The messages are all from Doug and his mother. The first voice mail he listens to is Nana shouting at him for five straight minutes. Calls are divided evenly between mom, dad, Doug and Nana. Sighing, T.J hits redial for Doug. He'll have to do it sooner or later.

_”T.J? Jesus Christ, where are you?”_

”And 'hi' to you, too.”

_”Do you know how worried everyone is? Are you okay? Mom wants to know if you're in a hospital?”_

T.J lets out a heavy sigh.

”I'm at the farm.”

That earns him complete silence from his brother.

”I'm... I'm okay, Doug, but I-” His voice cracks when he has to confess the truth. ”I didn't take anything, but I had it. I had it, and it's all fucking ruined.”

_”You're okay, T.J. It's all gonna be fine.”_

He sniffles, taking a shaky breath to steady himself.

”How long have you known?”

His brother's silence, combined with the fact that he never asked what happened tells him a bit more than he was prepared for, and the raging need to just punch something flares up.

_”Three weeks. I'm sorry. We thought it was just a rumour at first, and we were going to tell you today, we just-”_

”Yeah. Because me finding out the day the story hits the stands really worked well. This wouldn't have happened if you'd told me earlier, Doug,” he accuses, anger lacing his voice. ”You think I would've skipped town if you'd told me when you found out?”

_”It was a mistake. We didn't- No, mom, let me talk to him.”_

T.J lets out a humourless chuckle, standing up. Of course she'd want to talk. Doug was probably right to keep her from talking to him right now. 

_”Are you coming home tonight?”_ Doug asks, and T.J can hear the hope through the phone.

He angles his watch to the dim light. ”No. Think I'll stay here tonight. I'll drive back up tomorrow.”

_”Okay. You know, mom wants to lo-jack the cars now.”_

”Yeah?”

_”Nana wants lo-jack your, well...”_

”I messed up. I don't see how she can be disappointed again,” T.J deadpans, brushing his feet off on the legs of his jeans before stepping into his shoes.

_”Because she loves you, you know that. Try to get some sleep, and we'll see you tomorrow, okay?”_

”Okay.”

He ends the call, browsing through all the text messages and listening to the first second of each the voice mail to make the notifications disappear. He'll go through them all tomorrow, he'll face them each and hope for the best. 

The house is eerily quiet when he steps through the front door. Too alert to even think about going to sleep, T.J heads for the piano in the sitting room. He's rejected his father's suggestion of giving playing a shot, of studying or teaching more times than he can count. People don't become concert pianists at 30. Even so, he can't keep away. Piano was his first love, and he never remembers how he started playing, just that he did and a string of well-reputed piano teachers followed. He doesn't want to teach. He wants to play, not for fame, not for money, but for the reason he probably ended up falling in love with the instrument in the first place.

Because it makes him feel good.

He loves the way the chords echo through the room, the harmony and dissonance, the dynamics and the way his fingers just dance effortlessly across the keys through seemingly endless arpeggios. He couldn't give this up no matter how hard he tried. When the first chord sounds through the room, something heavy leaves him. T.J closes his eyes, going through a couple of more chords before falling into the moderato-part from Rachmaninoff's second piano concerto. He hated the piece at 13, his teacher insisting he was ready for it. His fingers wouldn't cooperate then, but learned to love the complex piece, now gliding through it like it's familiar waters.

He ends up falling asleep over the keys, deaf to the dissonant chord his head strikes, and wakes up at the crack of dawn when the first rays of sunshine hits his face. Stomach protesting wildly, he quickly locks up the house, knowing there is no food there that could satisfy him. He stops at the nearest gas station, loading up on juice and sandwiches for the ride home.

It's not even noon when he parks the car in the garage, and surprisingly finds the house empty. He had expected his mother to be out, but not having Nana around makes the house seem emptier than ever. She's always there, even when she's in another room her presence fills the house like a wild spirit. The gas station sandwiches didn't do much, and T.J heads for the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. Rows upon rows of soda and mineral water, restocked since yesterday. On the middle shelf, a small plate with a plastic-covered sandwich with a post it-note on it, his initials written in big, bold letters.

_T. J_  
_Day 1, you little shit._

He pulls away the the cling film, smiling when he sees a new, white 1 day-sobriety chip resting on the sandwich. T.J sticks it in his pocket, taking a bite of the sandwich only to nearly spit it out as the taste hits his tongue and a laughter bubbles up. Classic Nana.

Cold turkey.

**Author's Note:**

> At least I managed to end it on a somewhat happy note. Kudos and comments are, as always, welcome.


End file.
